One Drink To Remember
by Smart Alex
Summary: A Muggle college student inadvertantly finds himself lost in Hogsmeade, and finds a secret part of his family's past.


**One Drink To Remember  
(And Another To Forget)**

Sighing, Matt bent down to tie his shoelace. Hiking boots were a nuisance -- especially these. While they were hand me downs from his great-uncle Wardolfo (known as Uncle Ward to the general public, family, and friends), thus containing a great deal of sentimental value... the laces were downright oily and kept coming untied.

As he crouched down on the rocky path, his knee (which, like the rest of his leg, was clad in a worn pair of denim jeans) was jabbed by the sharp little rocks that covered the path.

'_Shouldn't you be home_?' whispered a voice in his mind. '_What about that paper old Claggy assigned you? Weren't you supposed to call Helen tonight_?'

He winced at the last thought. Helen, while pretty, intelligent and darned funny, was horrible about phone calls. She could stay on the phone for hours, talking about nothing at all. Occasionally she'd break into song -- in that case, he'd break for the bathroom. If there was one thing that Helen was not, it was musically inclined.

Matt tied the lace with a double knot, and looked across the plain. The wind ruffled his hair, gently, and his mind once again whispered, '_Shouldn't you be home? Go home. Go home, boy_.'

He straightened up, and adjusted his knapsack. '_Home home home_,' chanted his mind, _'home home home_--'

Ignoring the inner mantra, he walked forwards. Curiously, it felt like he was walking through a wall of jell-o. The strange sensation continued for a few more feet, and suddenly he was out. The air almost seemed fresher.

He didn't bother stopping to think of why that could be, but continued onwards.

----------

He hadn't seen the rock. But it was there, because when he had tripped on his untied shoelace, he had hit his head on it.

From the way his forehead felt sticky, Matt supposed he had cut it. From the way he blanked out, he had a feeling that the rock was less of a rock and more of a boulder.

----------

Groaning, Matt staggered to an upright position. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, and looked ahead of him. These lands were all grassland, pastures and fields that no one wanted, so he wasn't expecting to see anything. He didn't even really know why he was looking.

But none of that changed the fact that front of him was something that was definitely not a sheep pasture.

Matt blinked twice, and rubbed his eyes, but the view remained the same. Not too far off, maybe a half mile or so, was the wavery outline of a small village. 'Wavery' was the best word he could think of to describe it -- the edges of the buildings shimmered, as if they were part of a desert mirage.

The wind passed him by, and he flinched as it reminded him of the still-bleeding cut on his forehead.

Mirage or no, the village looked like the best place to head towards, and so he hoisted his small knapsack higher on his shoulders, and set off.

----------

He was now approaching one cottage, if it could be called that. It resembled more of a shack -- presentable, yet the door was stained with soot and its wood shingles looked chipped. A woman was standing in the front yard, folding laundry that had been taken down from a clothesline behind her.

Matt came nearer and called out, "Excuse me?"

The woman's head jerked up, and she stared at him. On further consideration, he decided that she was staring at his clothes. Matt looked down as well, frowning -- although his t-shirt had a speck of mustard on it from last Thursday's eating contest with his roommate, Shia (he had lost), it was in otherwise clean shape; as were the rest of his clothing.

The woman saw his frown and recognition dawned on her tanned face. "Oh, dear, I'm sorry," she said breathily. "For a moment I thought you were--"

Eyebrows raised, Matt opened his mouth to ask who she had thought he was, but the woman interrupted. "Nevermind. I suppose I should wear those silly glasses, after all. I suppose you're a new teacher at the school?"

"Er," he said, pondering the question. "You could say that, yes."

The woman's smile widened. "I thought so, the new teachers never can figure out how to get to Hogsmeade. Besides, them Muggle clothes of yours do give you away as very unexperienced."

Here, she lowered her voice to a dim, hoarse whisper, which he had to lean in to hear. "Don't you know them Muggles can't see it? There's a ward on this area for miles and miles. You've nothing to fear, dearie. Stick to your robes, proper attire's always a bonus."

Matt looked at the woman's outfit, frowning slightly as he noticed that her clothing was much stranger than his. She was wearing some sort of dress made of woolen fabric, with a checkered apron pinned to the front. On the ground next to her was a pointed, blue hat. He could have sworn that he had seen a hat like that before...

"So.. this town - Hogsmeade - it's close, right?" he asked cautiously.

She nodded. "Just follow the road, dearie," and pointed in the direction he was to take. "You can't miss it."

-----------

The road ended in front of him. He looked, and saw a sheep pasture, with a wooden fence surrounding it. The road continued as a field of yellowish green grass. The gate was wide open, but he felt a distinct sensation of not belonging. On the other side, though, were the crags. If anything, he might as well try to get there.

Matt's eyes were watering. He blinked, and for a split second, the sheep pasture contained a few cottages. He blinked again, and the cottages were part of a larger village. He blinked once more, and the pasture was again void of life. The gate was still open. '_Home_,' his mind muttered weakly.

As he stepped through the gate, the air snapped, like rubber that's been stretched too far.

-----------

The wind whipped around him, feeling chiller as the day went by. He pulled his jacket around him more tightly, dodging another large and shady-looking character who passed him on the road.

The village was filled with many odd people, most in long dresses, some wearing pointy hats of different colors. The window displays were bright and sparkled, and it was surely a sign that he needed glasses when he saw the text on advertisements jump about.

He kept walking, but stopped when he nearly walked into a sign.

'Tavern', proclaimed the sign in front of him. That was a welcome sight. A stiff drink was exactly what he needed, he was sure of that.

As he entered, the bells on the door jangled out a tune sounded curiously like 'Old MacDonald'. There weren't many people inside. A few were nursing cups of what looked something like coffee, while others were merely reading or chatting amongst themselves. Some were eating, but the bar itself was completely vacant. Behind the bar was a man washing out some glasses -- the bartender, he assumed. He headed over, and began reading the curious posters and signs that were around.

_Butterbeer_, read one such sign. _To warm you up when the summer gets cold_.

Matt considered the available choices (whatever Firewhiskey was, it sounded a bit too strong) and finally tapped on the bar. The bartender turned around, scowling slightly.

"What can I get for ye?" he inquired.

"One butterbeer, please," Matt ordered. "I think I'd like to try that."

The bartender regarded him closely. "Ye've never had it, then?"

Matt shook his head. "Never heard of it," he replied, watching the the barman pull out a dusty bottle from a cache next to him.

"Thank you," Matt said, eyeing the bottle, bottle opener and equally-dusty glass that were set before him. "How much?"

The bartender looked surprised, and turned to read the sign. His shoulders dropped, somewhat, and he looked at the man. "Ye've truly never had butterbeer, aye? I'll let you have that first bottle, on th' house."

Matt was surprised in turn, but put his wallet back in the pocket of his jacket. "Thank you."

He managed to open the bottle with little effort, and poured it carefully. The smell that arose was nigh-on heavenly, he mused. And yet it seemed like he had smelled it before. He took a sip from the glass, and the liquid that poured down his throat surprised him with its flavour and warmth. He could have sworn it was taken from a cold case.. he poured himself another glass, and relaxed.

"It's excellent," he said decisively, and the bartender laughed.

"Glad ye approve, laddy."

The time went by, quarter-hour, half-hour, as he sat at the bar and concentrated on his drink. He ran his tongue over his teeth, a habit he had developed when he was 13 and first got braces. Now the braces had been replaced by a retainer, which he still wore on occasion. The taste that remained reminded him of something. Someone. He couldn't quite place it...

A man with a long, pointed beard and a dusty black cloak burst in through the door, and most of the customers in the bar froze. But he ignored them, and marched up to the bar, sitting next to him. He immediately introduced himself as Inspector Jeremiah Skillet.

Matt nodded, and took a final swig of butterbeer.

"..terribly sorry about all the trouble," said Jeremiah Skillet. Matt looked up, vaguely confused.

"There's been no trouble at all, Mister Skillet," he said, and absentmindedly ran his tongue over his teeth once more.

"Ah, but there might have been," said Jeremiah Skillet, and waggled his beard. He reached into the depths of his cloak and pulled out what appeared to be a knobbly stick. "Rest assured, mister.. er, you can be sure that we'll put you back right where you belong."

The bartender sighed and turned around, resuming his work of drying off a glass. The room suddenly burst into loud, forced chatter, and Matt finally placed the curious taste of butterbeer.

At Uncle Ward's wake, the day before his funeral, there had been an elderly man who came late. He was dressed strangely, wearing a striped shirt, a blue tie with baseballs printed on it, a plaid jacket and checkered pants. His shoes were marked up penny loafers. The strange man came, offered his condolences, and stayed in a corner for the remainder of the wake, sipping from a glass bottle and observing all those who came to pay their respects.

The funeral director wandered over a few hours later, informing the family that they unfortunately had to close to prepare the body for its coffin. "Package him away in a box, bah," said the strange chap. "Why not burn'm. Do it proper." Matt had escorted him out, and the old man made him stand by his car. He pulled out another bottle, and handed it over, tipping the bottle's neck to the other in a toast. Matt had gone back in after that, to help close up, and the chap had seemingly vanished.

That was what had been so funny about this taste. He distinctly remembered toasting Uncle Ward with a bottle of butterbeer.

Jeremiah Skillet scribbled down a quick note on a notepad headed 'Department of Meandering Muggles -- Hogsmeade Branch' and pointed his wand at Matt.

"If you'd just look here a moment, please," he said. "Obliviate."

-------------

Matt was standing outside his dorm. He wasn't quite sure how he had gotten there, but that thought was pushed aside as Helen pounced on him.

"_Darling_!" Shia chirped mockingly, smirking as he watched them.

"Hello, you," said Helen, ruffling his hair. "Welcome back."

It was nice to be home, Matt mused. Although the funny thing was, he couldn't remember going anywhere in the first place.


End file.
